Children Killing Children: The Death of 8
by Thalionsul
Summary: An expansion on the death of Tribute 8-how Peeta ended it all.


They never told us how cold it could be. The fire is my downfall. My fingers ache with the deep set chill, joints stiff and cracking like the old men cowering in rocking chairs late in the afternoon. I craved the warmth, hovering my body over the licking flames as I tried to draw all the heat to my core. My stupid mind reassured me I was safe, that I could wake up in time to take cover, that I could escape. Oh my stupid mind.

It all happened in a moment, but these last few seconds of my pitiful life seem to tick by like hours. For the first time, I find that my eyes are opened. Yes, I had a pitiful life. The reality of it all had hit me too late. It is just a game. All my life, I had thought it was just a game. We glorify the winners in our district, pretend to be then as we grew, but I had never really registered that terrified tremble in my mother's voice as she soothed my hair down at night before I drifted off to sleep. I never took to heart my father hugging me close to his strong body. I knew they loved me, but at this moment I never realized how much.

And in this moment, I realized I am too late. Too late to whisper, "I love you too, Daddy." Too late to give my mother a reassuring smile. My whole life came down to this. A piece in these games.

They are on me like fleas on my old dog at home, circling with cruel grins. Taunting. Jeering. But it's just a game. Just a game, right? But I am wrong. The girl from One. The beautiful one with long blonde hair. I see it for the first time. I see blood lust presented in a stunning display of fluid body motion and flying hair. She must have studied dance to possess such deadly grace in her limbs. Her full lips curl up, blue eyes yearning to see my life spilled out on the ground. She oozes vitality, that perfect mouth calling for a crimson tide to flow. What had I ever done to her? I didn't even know her name. This was just supposed to be a game.

Her district partner mimics her eagerness for my death. My whole body jerks in revulsion at the sight of him and the grip he has on his spear. But it's a tiny detail that burns itself into my mind: he has stunning hands. His fingers are long and tapered, not stocky or sausage like. Square, strong hands that are perfectly formed. His knuckles are bleached white from his powerful grasp on the spear. The metal flashes in the light reflecting off their torches and flashlights. Cold steel. Beautiful hands. It's just a game.

The District 4 girl catcalls me, saliva flying from her mouth, as she dances around me like a fairy in the woods. She's not light of foot or graceful like the girl from One. Her ungainly gait throws her into the path of the other Careers, but they are all too soaked in bloodlust to notice. Her narrow body contorts and writhes, that slight jaw draped open. Red lips glisten, white teeth bared like an animal, foam flying out as she chants, "Kill 'er! Kill 'er!" Her clumsy body betrays her own fear though. I can see it in her trembling hands. They clutch a sword at her side, but the weapon remains sheathed. It's just a game to her too. She cries for my blood, but she doesn't want to be the one to walk away with stained hands.

The boy from District 12 hangs back. Peeta Mellark. I remember being impressed with his audacity to pronounce his love of his district partner. At least I was impressed enough to put his name to memory. But I was drawn to more than his boldness. Those eyes. Deep blue pools of pain and fear mixed with regret and shame. He never utters a word, but his eyes say it all. They say they do not agree with the game. They call for peace in the chaos that is exploding in these last few moments of my life. He knows I cannot escape the grasp of my fellow tributes. He knows my destiny, and instead of my mind screaming for him to save me, I find a deep peace from his gaze. I don't blame this boy. He does not condone these actions, but he's also in the games and playing to protect his life. I don't blame him. I ate the food, I dressed the part too, and now I am playing the game. He's not a monster. He's not District 2. Even in these last tender moments, empathy for this boy explodes in my chest. We're just children playing a game. A deadly, sadistic game.

My focus settles on the tributes from 2. Their wickedness pulls me away from the sadness of 12. They play off each other so well, each teasing out tendrils of pure evil in one another. I remember Clove's name. I remember her skill in the training room. Knives dance in her fingers. Fear tingles down my spine. The other tributes don't have the gumption to take a life yet. It's still too early in the games for such a personal death, but these two, Clove and Cato, are ready to torture, mutilate, and destroy. An impish grin overtakes Clove's face, and I cannot help the words, the desperate pleas that leave my lips.

"Please, please…please no!" My lungs gasp for air, drawing in what will be my last pain free breath. My screams drown out the early morning birds that have just started to sing.

It's Cato's sword that plunges deep into my abdomen. He's such a large boy, tall and broad. His features are angular, sharp, like the weapon he wields. The cold steel slices through my tender skin, tearing me apart from the inside out. It's an intimate kill. His warm breath caresses my face. His cold blue eyes search mine, looking for that moment that my soul departs my body. I never realized that arrogance and triumph had an odor, but my senses pick up traces of these characteristics in the reek of sweat from his close body. Hatred consumes his eyes as he realizes his strike was not an instant kill. He will not see my essence depart from this world. But what is this? A small flicker of fear, like a dying tongue of flame, reflects in those clear blue irises. He doesn't want to watch me die for a long period of time. He wants it quick and messy. He wants a one-shot kill. This actually humors me for a split second. It would wound this brutal killer's pride to have to take a second stroke of his sword. Pain radiates from my abdomen as he jerks the steel from my belly. A cruel smile graces his lips. He had the guts to do it. My blood stains his sword hand.

The weight of my slender body is too much for my legs to handle. The pain. It has overtaken my senses. As my form crumbles to the ground, I hear the declaration, "Twelve down, eleven to go." Their laughter is muffled in my ears over the rush of blood. As I lay on my back, I can feel the hot tears trace burning rivulets down my face, burying themselves into my hair, melting like molten lava into my ears.

The bone crushing cold starts in my toes. I can feel it despite the warm leather boots. The creeping chill is its own version of hell. It inches up my toes, caressing the arches of my feet, winding around my heels and flicking up my ankles. My hands clutch at my stomach. The stickiness of my own blood is revolting. I can feel it pulse out of my wound, and I fight the urge to wretch. It would be too painful to throw up now, and I do not have the strength to roll over to vomit on the forest floor. I am grasping at straws to preserve my dignity. I will not throw up on myself. Don't look down. Don't vomit. What little focus I have is on the gradually lightening sky through the sparse pine trees. Though it's artificial, this is my last sunrise. I want to burn the wisps of orange and pink into my mind. A touch of beauty in this desolate reality.

I feel his warm hand on my face, gently wiping the tears away, brushing back my hair. Those eyes are wrought with grief as he stares at me. His voice is gentle as he whispers, "I am so sorry."

"Please," I beg of him softly, "Please…don't watch…me die." The words roll off my thick tongue heavily. The boy's face contorts in agony as I feel the pressure of a blade on the inside of my thigh.

No, no I can't go yet. "Wait!" I gasp. I need to see peace on his face before I go. He needs to know I don't hold him responsible. "I don't…blame you. It was…just supposed to..." fresh tears spill onto my face as my voice shakes, "…be a game." With all the energy I can muster, I grab the boy's hand that is holding the knife. Weakly I press down, encouraging him to end it. To end me. His eyes soften as he realizes my feeble attempts, and his stroke is swift and sure.

"Good bye." His voice feels far away, and I sense that he honors my last request by leaving me alone. Like water draining out of an unplugged sink, I can feel myself pour out onto the fridge ground.

Yes, it was just a game. But I lost.


End file.
